into a wood. Determined to reach that bit of natural nature, she stepped back a few paces, took a deep breath, ran and jumped.
She almost fell and spent a few frightening moments teetering on the brink of the opposite side before she got her balance. Once she did, she walked briskly along the path into the shadows of the oaks, beeches and alders, feeling triumphant and happy to be away from the stiflingformality of Granshire Hall. Large royal ferns, browning with the season, lined the path and carpeted the wood floor, along with wild garlic and campion. Lichen clung to the tree trunks, and years of fallen leaves made her progress silent. She spotted two chaffinches on a branch overhead, their slightly red breasts a bright spot among the yellowing leaves.
The way was uneven and a little rocky, and she wasnât exactly dressed for a long walk, but after a little while, it was as if sheâd left the Earl of Granshireâs estate far behind and entered a mysterious, enchanted wood. She wouldnât have been surprised to come upon a fairy ring, or a centaur, or a unicorn.
Or a knight on horseback, clad in chain mail and looking like Lord Bromwell.
She supposed she was running away again, albeit in a less drastic manner. She probably ought to leave Granshire Hall and the viscount and his familyâbut where exactly was she going to go? Where would she be safe from the law and Lord Sturmpole?
The memory of that terrible night invaded the peace of the wood. She felt the same horror as she had when she realized Lord Sturmpole had no intention of paying her wages unless she submitted. The struggle that ensued. The locked door. Her escape and fear and flightâ¦
She paused beneath a willow beside a babbling stream, the leaves a canopy made by Mother Nature, the grass a natural carpet. If only she could stay here foreverâ¦
Something that was most definitely not the stream, or a bird, or the call of an animal, broke the silence.
Somebody was singing. Or rather, chanting, followed by rhythmic clapping.
Keeping to the edge of the stream, she slowly followed the sound until she reached an opening where the stream formed a deep pool. There, at the edge, she could see the singer, who was also dancing, or so she supposed the rhythmic steps and arm movements must be.
It was Lord Bromwell, clad only in dark trousers and boots, chanting in a foreign language and moving his body as sheâd never seen a body move, in a dance like no dance sheâd ever seen and a very far cry from a quadrille or a waltz.
Chapter Eight
The process is both time-consuming and somewhat painful, as I can personally attest. I declined the full tattoo given to adult males, which caused much hilarity among the women, who clearly thought I was admitting I was but a child despite my years and certain other evidence that I was not.
âfrom The Spiderâs Web , by Lord Bromwell
N ell stared in complete fascination, marvelling at the lithe ease and grace with which Lord Bromwell moved, the undulations of his body, the deep bends and the way he moved his knees back and forth like the wings of a butterfly. She had never seen anything like it, and likely never would again.
He turned, so that he was facing away from her, and she spotted something on his back, slightly visible above the waistband of his trousers. It was a dark mark, like a large birthmarkâ¦or a tattoo?
It had to be, she thought as she inched her way forward. What was it supposed to depict? She was too far away totell and too much of it was covered by his trousers to guess what it was with any accuracyâand she really shouldnât linger here. Surely he would be mortified if he found her there, as she would be to have him know that sheâd been watching him.
Nevertheless, she hesitated, then decided it was worth the risk to listen to his chant and watch him dance like some sort of warrior from long ago calling on his gods.
Until a dog bayed nearby.
She almost fell and spent a few frightening moments teetering on the brink of the opposite side before she got her balance. Once she did, she walked briskly along the path into the shadows of the oaks, beeches and alders, feeling triumphant and happy to be away from the stiflingformality of Granshire Hall. Large royal ferns, browning with the season, lined the path and carpeted the wood floor, along with wild garlic and campion. Lichen clung to the tree trunks, and years of fallen leaves made her progress silent. She spotted two chaffinches on a branch overhead, their slightly red breasts a bright spot among the yellowing leaves.
The way was uneven and a little rocky, and she wasnât exactly dressed for a long walk, but after a little while, it was as if sheâd left the Earl of Granshireâs estate far behind and entered a mysterious, enchanted wood. She wouldnât have been surprised to come upon a fairy ring, or a centaur, or a unicorn.
Or a knight on horseback, clad in chain mail and looking like Lord Bromwell.
She supposed she was running away again, albeit in a less drastic manner. She probably ought to leave Granshire Hall and the viscount and his familyâbut where exactly was she going to go? Where would she be safe from the law and Lord Sturmpole?
The memory of that terrible night invaded the peace of the wood. She felt the same horror as she had when she realized Lord Sturmpole had no intention of paying her wages unless she submitted. The struggle that ensued. The locked door. Her escape and fear and flightâ¦
She paused beneath a willow beside a babbling stream, the leaves a canopy made by Mother Nature, the grass a natural carpet. If only she could stay here foreverâ¦
Something that was most definitely not the stream, or a bird, or the call of an animal, broke the silence.
Somebody was singing. Or rather, chanting, followed by rhythmic clapping.
Keeping to the edge of the stream, she slowly followed the sound until she reached an opening where the stream formed a deep pool. There, at the edge, she could see the singer, who was also dancing, or so she supposed the rhythmic steps and arm movements must be.
It was Lord Bromwell, clad only in dark trousers and boots, chanting in a foreign language and moving his body as sheâd never seen a body move, in a dance like no dance sheâd ever seen and a very far cry from a quadrille or a waltz.
Chapter Eight
The process is both time-consuming and somewhat painful, as I can personally attest. I declined the full tattoo given to adult males, which caused much hilarity among the women, who clearly thought I was admitting I was but a child despite my years and certain other evidence that I was not.
âfrom The Spiderâs Web , by Lord Bromwell
N ell stared in complete fascination, marvelling at the lithe ease and grace with which Lord Bromwell moved, the undulations of his body, the deep bends and the way he moved his knees back and forth like the wings of a butterfly. She had never seen anything like it, and likely never would again.
He turned, so that he was facing away from her, and she spotted something on his back, slightly visible above the waistband of his trousers. It was a dark mark, like a large birthmarkâ¦or a tattoo?
It had to be, she thought as she inched her way forward. What was it supposed to depict? She was too far away totell and too much of it was covered by his trousers to guess what it was with any accuracyâand she really shouldnât linger here. Surely he would be mortified if he found her there, as she would be to have him know that sheâd been watching him.
Nevertheless, she hesitated, then decided it was worth the risk to listen to his chant and watch him dance like some sort of warrior from long ago calling on his gods.
Until a dog bayed nearby.
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